The New White
by antler
Summary: [Oneshot, AU. Some RoxasAxel with a hint of RoxasDemyx] Roxas doesn't like those perfect white walls, but do they look pretty when they're burning. [T for some violent stuff]


AN: So I did this while I shoulda been working on Band Geeks. Oh well. This unbelievably persistent little plot bunny was threatening to breed in my head if I didn't get this out. The wonders of new music. Anyways, a story from Roxy's point of view in an asylum. I was testing a slightly different style of writing, so this might be a little strange.

There is some shonen ai content, but it is only a little. Just some Roxas/Demyx and Roxas/Axel.

* * *

The walls are white. Painfully bright, they hurt his gleaming blue eyes, make him stare at them unblinkingly when all he wants to do is sleep. White as snow, mocking him, immaculately clean even as he smears blood over them. He hates the walls, hates the way they reach forever and ten feet above his spiky blonde hair, hates the way they deafen his screams.

If he hates the walls, then he would chop off his own hand before touch that goddamned door. It has a tiny little window, all the way at the top, where the boy is too short to look out of. He watches the window from the corner of the room, knowing that doctors and nurses watch him from behind that bullet-proof glass.

A lot of the times he thinks. He thinks of Zexion's books, Luxord's cards, Marluxia's flowers. He thinks of Xaldin cooking bacon, Xigbar making fun of him, Lexaeus tackling him. Avoiding Saix on full moons and Xemnas just whenever. He remembers getting high with Larxene and trying to get Vexen high. He can't do any of that, though, so he is left with few options.

Sometimes he sings. He sings songs that Demyx used to sing him, melodies that rang of tears and love and drugs and killing. Poppy lips, Demyx used to call him. When he is in a good mood, he sings, just to remember the way Demyx kissed.

He likes to deface the walls, mostly. He has a pretty purple crayon, one that enjoys drawing blood and torture almost as much as he imagines a red crayon would. Every time he gets a new purple crayon, he peels off the wrapper and scatters it ceremoniously about the tiny room. He won't let the janitor clean the floor, so he has a comforting carpet of paper to lay on. The janitor washes the walls, though, those perfect white walls, so every few days he has to redraw his masterpieces.

Sleep isn't something he can do much of anymore. He is haunted by memories, of freedom and pleasure and his friends. So instead of the rest he really wants, he gazes at the walls, wondering who is still alive, if anyone is.

The handle on the door jiggles slightly before it swings open. He tilts his head, shoving his back into the corner of two of the walls, arms wrapped around his legs. One of his doctors, a thick folder in hand, stands illuminated in the threshold to his cubicle, grey hair slick with gel. The man steps forward and shuts the door. The boy lets out of rush of air, glaring through the lab coat over his doctor's stomach to the door.

"Roxas." The doctor tries to say his name in that soothing tone they use on the retarded boy down the hall. Roxas sneers, raising his chin arrogantly at the faceless man before him. "We have pictures of people we think you might know." A voice that is too soft assaults the boy's ears. "They are bad people, Roxas, and we want you to help us get them. Just tell us who there are."

The doctor hands the folder to the boy, who wants to tell them that he is _not_ stupid, no no no. Roxas isn't stupid. Never stupid. Nevertheless, he keeps his plump little lips shut and opens the folder. Azure orbs burn through the picture at the top, and the boy tosses the stack of photos on the ground. The doctor flinches, but the blonde teen merely spreads all the pictures out.

Thirteen. They lie atop a bed of lavender shavings, and Roxas giggles. There are thirteen pictures, thirteen full tiles on his ceiling, thirteen panes in that stupid little window on the door. He lines them up in order - silver, eyepatch, sideburns, long blonde, big chin, glower, scarface, mullet, card man, pinky, antennae, himself. He snickers, clutching one picture to his chest.

Eyebrows rising, the doctor gives him a funny glance. "Roxas, why do keep his picture apart?"

The blonde boy looks down at the redhead smirking up at him from the laminated photo. "Cause it's Axel," he sighs, ignoring the way the doctor gasps at the boy's first use of speech in months. "Axel doesn't belong with them," he adds, glaring jokingly at the other pictures.

"And why is that?" Questions, questions. Too much white. Roxas digs his fingernails into his cheekbones, blood splattering into Axel's hair.

"Axel will come for me. Just you watch. They won't, but he will. Then they'll be sorry." His cryptic mutterings are gloomy in tone but accompanied by a malicious grin. "Just you watch, doc; Axel always comes."

* * *

Roxas doesn't like lies, especially white ones. So when his nurse asks him if he knows the names of the eleven other people, just like every other doctor and nurse does, he tells her yes. Yes, in fact he does. She asks him if he will tell her who they are, and he asks her why they care so much. The pretty young nurse pales a little and stalks off to his laughter.

* * *

Even less than lies does the boy like broken promises. So when his new doctor - thirteen, he whispers gleefully, the thirteenth - tells him he gets to leave, Roxas knows who has come. The redhead is waiting for him in the lobby of the hospital, crimson hairs shining in the fluorescent light. He's got papers, papers from the Government, and the doctors can't fight with clean truth like Axel can produce.

Roxas hugs Axel, hard, hands digging into the redhead's back. Staff from the hospital encircle them, frustrated and defeated, but Axel isn't afraid of a few corrupted medical practitioners, unless they go by the names of Vexen or Zexion. He gives them his scary grin, the one Roxas can feel without looking at his face, but they don't back down.

"Just one name," someone begs, a needle clenched in one hand. "Just one real name."

Roxas and Axel draw apart, emerald eyes clashing with cobalt ones. Roxas snickers as they nod at each other. "Xehanort," the blonde remarks casually. "Silver's name is Xehanort."

They chortle as they stride out of the hospital hand in hand. Roxas feels a weight in his pocket and pulls out his purple crayon. Axel glances at in fascination as they pause in the parking lot.

"Xemnas won't be happy we told 'em one of his names, you know."

"Ya, I know.

"..."

"..."

"It's been a while since I killed, love. Wanna have a little fun?" Roxas' innocent voice is dangerously seductive as he presses against Axel. The pyro chuckles, fingering his belt.

"I'm a step ahead, Roxy." Smirking, Roxas reaches over. He fumbles gently with Axel's belt buckle, purposely. The checkered material slides open a bit, and there is an ear shattering explosion from behind them.

Arms entwined, they grin at the blazing hospital. The white walls, outside, inside, what's left of them, are drenched in flames and ash. A leg lands beside them, shattered bone protruding, and Axel has to hold the boy back.

"Too much white, Axel, too much white." He murmurs, glaring at the bone. Fingers run over the taller man's face, tracing tanned skin, crimson eyebrows, ebony tattoos, supple lips. "You're not white, there is no white. Thank you, thank you, no more walls."

"No more walls," Axel repeats as the hospital's infrastructure collapses. The stench of flaming steel and flesh reaches their nostrils, and Roxas inhales delightedly.

"Poor 127 A," he comments easily. "Hope he died quick, 'cause they broke him. Broke him till he wasn't smart anymore." Raising the purple crayon, he uses it to block out the sight of the building. "Did they break me, too, Axel? How am I?"

Axel merely smiles, grabbing the blonde's waist. "You're not broken, Roxy. No more than you ever were. You're not stupid, hon, not at all."

They hear the sirens in the distance, and it is something they are used to. Roxas likes the sirens. They are blue and red and even yellow, but never white. Axel is tugging him, and finally the boy relents and follows him in a mad dash to the pyro's motorcycle. The bike is a hazy green with chrome trimmings, but has no white. He pulls on the helmet Axel passes him, the black helmet that is checkered but never pure white. Roxas likes that, too, even more than the sirens that are becoming clearer.

"Look at her go," Axel says, flashing his teeth. Roxas can see the bodies on the sidewalk, nurses and doctors who asked too many questions, dying in their last bet for freedom, ivory lab coats still smoldering. He smirks.

"Freedom," he states, snapping his pretty purple crayon, "is not white. They should've known that. Shoulda known."

"Kid, you got something against white?" It's not a probing question, not something doctors who are really detectives would ask. It's simple, mocking, and curious, completely free.

Roxas giggles and tosses the cracked bits of crayon towards the hospital. If he wasn't so used to Axel, he would have gagged on the smoke weaving through the air. The building groans as a fire truck races into view, no longer a cage but a burning skeleton with corpses hanging from its joints. He wonders where the thirteen pictures went. "Dontcha know, Ax? Purple is the new white."

* * *

dies This thing ended up more a humor than the twisted oneshot I had in mind. Too bad. I'm not insanely pleased with the ending, but I do like the beginning. Yes, I was purposely repeating the theme of white. Yes, Roxas' crayon was important. Yes, I was high when I wrote this, but only naturally so. . Really.


End file.
